


Stone Walls

by lilbatfacedgirl



Series: Moments from Beckmann [2]
Category: Shameless - Fandom
Genre: Beckmann Correctional, It's a prison story so..., Kidnapping, M/M, Mexican Cartel Justice, Post 9X6, Psychological Torture, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 10:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbatfacedgirl/pseuds/lilbatfacedgirl
Summary: One does not simply roll on a Mexican Cartel and walk away unscathed.  Mickey finally has to face the consequences of his choices.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> *I am adding this to a series entitled "Moments from Beckmann". Although this was the first part published, it's chronologically part two of the series.
> 
> I'm very nervous about posting this story, but I do think its pretty realistic considering the premise that canon established for these characters. Mickey rolled on a Mexican Drug Cartel. He is now incarcerated in an Illinois penal gen-pop. To have no retaliation against him struck me as highly unrealistic so I wrote this. It ain't pretty but there is a light on the other side.

It was never really dark on a cell block.

It wasn’t normally this quiet either, at least not on the West side.  Shit, they didn’t call it the Wild West for nothing. Here though, in the East side cells, the inmates tended to sleep pretty peacefully.  Even though the outside hall was still lit by the amber glow of emergency bulbs; even though the pale light streamed through the windows and into the cells.  

Arturo Mesa stood at the bottom of the metal stairs with his hands crossed carefully in front of him, holding his entire body in a relaxed but ready pose.  Behind him, three other men sprawled soundlessly on the table top and benches that occupied the common space in the middle of the East side’s cell block A. Their leisurely poses might have caused Arturo some aggravation but their silence won his confidence.  He didn’t know these men. That was part of the plan. But each of them had been hand selected for this mission by their respective chapter officer and their attentive quiet reflected their leader’s word and good name. Arturo understood what that meant. These were good soldiers.  He could trust them. 

Further down the hall, Arturo could see the shapes of two other men, their heads bent together as they spoke.  Their body language carried significance but Arturo paid it little mind. It was not his responsibility to worry about the dealings and discussions that prefaced these kinds of events.  It was his job to carry out the orders that were given. 

When the orders did come, they would come from those two men.  Arturo knew them by reputation more than by sight. The first, tall with a ramrod straight spine, was Rick Healey, the head guard of Beckmann.  Little was known about him personally but he was some kind of ex-military. He was a tough man who wasn’t known to have a high tolerance for bullshit, but he was not naive. He knew there was a whole lot of transaction going on in his prison but he demanded that it be kept controlled, quiet, and as safe as possible.  He had no patience and little mercy for those who thought they could tip the careful balance he maintained.

He was also no fan of the exploitation of the weak.  Beckmann was a prison. There were probably a few innocent people within its walls, but most of the inmates were guilty of something.  Healey had perspective that made him fairly unique to prison guards, though. He vetted crime on a scale. To him, a serial murderer and a petty thief weren’t the same.  The hardened repeat offenders who returned to Beckmann to take care of business on a regular rotation were housed on the West side. The rest of the inmates clustered on this end of the prison, in the relative sanity and safety that was provided by the block’s de facto leader.  A man who was currently in deep discussion with Rick Healey. A man upon whom Arturo currently waited.

David Coker was a legend in the Illinois penal system.  It was a legend that was rooted in the kind of savagery that had previously landed him in places like the West Side.  He’d survived years in the supermax at Tamms before it was closed. But somewhere in that process, Coker’s path had taken a turn.  He’d been a fast rising leader in the Outlaws, the MC born in the streets of Chicago, but no one really knew what had caused the man to distance himself from the violent club.  All Arturo knew for sure was that the man had landed in Beckmann and implemented as controlled and safe an environment as could ever be managed in the East Side cell blocks. He was still respected and feared enough to maintain that hold and he’d aligned with enough OGs from different organizations, other hard men looking for a break from the fray, that the little semi-Utopia was always equipped with some quality muscle.  For the most part, the West siders just left them alone. 

And smoked their weed.  Arturo never trusted any product from the West side.  In fact, he had some quality leaf waiting back in his cell right now.  But the work came first. 

It appeared that the negotiation might be concluding anyway.  The two men had drawn their heads apart and their shoulders were no longer set with so much tension.  Arturo wasn't surprised when they began striding down the halls to where he and the small group waited.  Snapping his fingers lightly, he called the other three to order.

Coker opened the discussion, his gravelly whisper fierce but clearly resigned. “I don’t like this shit,” he stated pointedly, his eyes fixed on Arturo’s black gaze, “but I do understand the need.  But you go no further than the set stipulations. And when it’s done, you walk away. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Arturo stated simply, nodding his head.  

Coker nodded carefully.  “You tell Luis I appreciate that he sent you.  Your reputation precedes you. You don’t take shit too far, you don’t act out of malice, you’re known to be disciplined.  I’m glad it’s you and it speaks well of your chapter.” 

The seasoned enforcer only nodded.  His organization was spread all over the western hemisphere at this point and he knew from personal experience that all the chapters didn’t adhere to the Manifesto and Constitution as they should, but Luis was an officer who didn’t suffer those who strayed from the mission.  Arturo respected the man all the more for it. 

“Let’s talk logistics for a moment,” Healey interjected.  “You got what you need?”

Arturo nodded and one of the others stepped forward and held up the thick strips of bed sheets and the single set of regulation handcuffs.  Finally, he held up two shivs fashioned from a broken cafeteria tray and duct tape. It was all bland and untraceable. Healey nodded.

“Okay.  I’ll open the door but then I’m walking back. I won’t help, though I doubt you’ll need it.  As of twenty minutes ago, they were both asleep on the bottom bunk. You get your guy and you keep the other one restrained.  The door will be locked so you just need to slide it shut to keep the redhead inside.” Healey paused, taking a deep breath. “Nothing happens to the redhead.  That needs to be a priority. He’s got a fair share of celebrity attached to him with that crazy movement he started. He gets hurt, it’ll get out.” The guard paused and shook his head, “Your guy’s not exactly anonymous either.”

“He’s not,” Arturo replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the two men before him, “but it doesn’t matter..  This has to be done.”

“Fucking Baguerros were monsters,” Healey muttered, “I mean, even by the lowest standards we could ever set, they were monsters.”

“Not arguing,” Arturo responded easily.  “No one mourns them. I don’t. Luis don’t.  Our Inca don’t. The other cartels who are sanctioning this shit don’t either.  You’re right, officer. They were monsters, even by the lowest standards. But that ain’t the point.  We need to have consequences for actions. Without it, there’d be fucking chaos. And you don’t want that.”

“No,” Cocker nodded, “No, we don’t.”  He glanced up to the second tier, to a particular darkened cell.  Arturo followed his gaze. A-23. Their destination. 

“Alright, go get this shit done,” the grizzled biker demanded.  

They followed Healey up the stairs.  Staring at the guard’s back, Arturo could see the stiff lines in the man’s back but he didn’t dwell on it.  There was another story there, some mutual respect between the guard population and his target. Something about some abusive, toxic bitch getting fired because of the guy’s last prison break.  Arturo glanced down at the cell door again as he crested the stairs. This had always been a tricky situation, with the guards, with Cocker, with the target and his cellmate’s national level infamy, but he had spoken the truth before.  There needed to be consequences or it would all fall down. And then revenue would be lost, war would escalate. Many, many people would die. 

“It’ll be a measured and appropriate response,” he said to the guard as he passed him on the tier.  Healey’s mouth twisted up but he only nodded curtly. 

Taking a few more steps forward, the guard glanced into the glass window, then turned back towards them with a nod.  Arturo read the gesture and understood. They were both on the bottom bunk, asleep. With a flick of his chin, the enforcer sent two of his fellow soldiers down the tier to stand on the other side of the door.  

“Which side of the bunk is he on,” he whispered.

“Closest to the door,” the guard replied. “The redhead’s probably got an arm around him though.”

Arturo nodded.  “I go in first,” he whispered to his men,  “I’ll grab him and drag him down. You get the ginger fuck secured, then one of you help me bind him.”  He looked around but he saw nothing but competence and understanding in the eyes of his fellow enforcers.  Handing one of the shivs to the man in front, he ordered, “Light shit only. Don’t fuck him up. Especially his face.”  He didn’t have to explain why. 

Glancing up at Healey, he nodded.

The small cell was fairly dark as the door slid open, but the occupants had both been asleep, which proved to be more of a disadvantage than temporary blindness.  And then there was the fact that they were both dressed in nothing but prison issue boxer briefs. As he lunged forward towards his prime prey, Arturo felt the absurd thought of their ethnic origins suddenly run through his mind.  What were they again? Irish? Russian? No, Ukrainian. But they were both pale as milk, all the better to glow visibly in the weak light from the hall. It gave the four enforcers a distinct opportunity that they quickly put to use.

Arturo went low, hooking an arm around the lithe brunette’s waist and twisting, using his body weight to drag them both down to the floor.  He landed on top of the target but the upper hand didn’t last for long as the smaller man twisted beneath him and managed to drive a knee into his side.  He followed with a sharp uppercut that sent Arturo’s head crashing back. He was only stunned for a moment but it gave the brunette an opening to get his hands behind him and scoot backwards.  The enforcer grimaced in pain but the sensation only impressed him. His prey was a worthy adversary. But he wasn’t going to get away. 

The brunette shot a foot out, aiming for Arturo’s chin, but he was expecting the move and ducked, capturing the ankle as it flew past his cheek.  Moving on pure instinct, he quickly skimmed his hands up to the wily Ukrainian’s knee and yanked hard, throwing himself forward at the same time.  They both landed sprawled on the floor but this time Arturo wasn’t taking any chances. He lunged, seizing the brunette’s wrists and slamming them down hard on the concrete floor again.  

Pain exploded through his knuckles at the same time the cell was suddenly flooded with light.  Healey must have flipped the switch, he realized as he squinted against the glare. The brunette was temporarily blinded, too, as were the four men still frantically wrestling around behind him.  But blind or not, outnumbered or not, neither of the cell’s occupants showed any signs of slowing down. And Arturo needed to be careful with the one beneath him. He couldn’t mark him too badly. 

Whipping his head around, he whistled to the other enforcers behind him.  Immediately, one broke away from the subdued but struggling redhead and moved to help him.  The guy didn’t even pause to take a breath, instantly fighting his way back to his feet.

“Mickey!” he screamed, lunging forward and almost breaking free of his captors before they wrestled him back to the ground.  The cry renewed the brunette’s fight and he managed to break away for a moment, but now Arturo had a partner and it didn’t take long before they had their prey face down on the floor. They couldn’t quite get ahold of his wrists though and they didn’t have the time for fucking games.  With another quick whistle, he gave the signal to the two still fighting with the redhead. Then, swinging his leg over the angry puta’s back, he lay down flush along his back and grabbed his chin hard. 

“Look up,” he whispered fiercely, tugging the targets head back.  The little Ukrainian froze underneath him, letting his eyes drift up as Arturo positioned his head.  The enforcer could feel the deep, panicked breath that the brunette drew in and relaxed. 

He had Mickey Milkovich exactly where he wanted him.

“Look,” he repeated, but the brunette’s blue gaze was already fixed on the sight in front of him.  Finally, Arturo’s brothers had managed to force the furious ginger down on his knees and get the makeshift blade up to his throat.  As they both watched, a trickle of blood ran down the pale skin and pooled at the man’s clavicle. 

“Don’t,” Milkovich spit out, a wet, sobbing sound in his voice, “Don’t fucking hurt him.”

Arturo didn’t hesitate.  He let all of his weight settle on the smaller man’s back, allowing himself to enjoy the small struggle as the brunette frantically tried to keep his head up.  Leaning down, the enforcer found the brunette’s ear.

“Stop fighting,” he whispered, running a hand almost tenderly over the man’s cheek as he spoke, “He isn’t the one I want to cut.”  He could feel the involuntary shudder that ran through Milkovich’s whole form at those words but he swallowed down his satisfaction.  This was what he needed; the little man terrified and compliant. 

“I fucking stopped,” Milkovich bit out, his gaze still fixed on the knife at his cellmate’s throat. Cellmate.  Hmmm. Staring up at the other man, Arturo determined there was no reason to be coy. He knew exactly what they were to each other.  It was the foundation for their plan, after all. But the brunette had stopped struggling. He had actually gone completely limp and the only stress the enforcer could still feel in his body was the strain of holding his head off the floor so he could meet the redhead’s eyes.  

That connection was the first thing Arturo would take from him.  He carded a hand gently through the brunette locks, letting the strands slip between his fingers.  He could feel the uncomfortable trembling in his captive’s shoulders as he paused for a moment, using his inaction to build the tension before squeezing a fist in the black hair and yanking back.  Beneath him, Milkovich let out a pained grunt but when he offered no real resistance when Arturo pushed his head down and pinned his cheek to the floor, forcing him to fix his gaze on the far wall.  Releasing the hair, the enforcer spread his hand out over the entire side of the other man’s face and resumed his soft caress. It was an almost proprietary action but an accurate one. Milkovich might not realize it yet, but he belonged to him now.  The guards and OGs and cartels might make the plans, Luis might give the orders, but it was Arturo himself who would do all the touching. 

Leaning down, he let his lips actually brush over the shell of Mickey’s ear as he gave his next order.  “Stay right there,” he punctuated the command with the slight dig of his fingertips. Reaching back, he gestured towards the pile of supplies he’d dropped on the floor just inside the cell, pausing while his brother handed him what he needed. 

“Hands behind your back,” he murmured against the brunette’s cheek. 

Immediately he felt the tension in the lithe body ratchet it but he only leaned forward, settling his weight and keeping the blue gaze fixed and pinned away from the restrained redhead.  Mickey didn’t resume his struggle but Arturo could hear some fight left in his voice as he spit out, “Why? What the fuck you gonna do?”

“Hands behind your back,” the enforcer repeated, letting his fingers dig into the cheek, “or I’ll let them cut him to shit.”

“No!” The word flew from the brunette’s lips.  Beneath him, Arturo could feel every muscle in the smaller man’s body go rigid with potential energy as he weighed his options, but the enforcer only pressed his weight down more firmly into the sweat slicked skin beneath him and waited.  He already knew how this would go. Mickey Milkovich was going to give him what he wanted. He’d never risk the redhead and that was a card Arturo could continue to play. 

He didn’t have to wait long.  The muscles beneath him began to uncoil as the brunette sunk further into surrender.  Slowly, he stilled his flailing arms, drawing one and then the other slowly down the sides of his body until they lay flat against his sides.  

Arturo wasn’t wasting any more time.  Reaching down behind his back, he quickly snapped the one cuff shut around the black haired man’s left wrist with an ease born of practice.  Shifting to the left, he finally climbed off the prone form of the street hustler, keeping one hand pressed firm against the brunette’s cheek while he used the free cuff to drag the bound arm up and over Mickey’s back.  

“The other one,” he demanded shortly.  

The brunette shuddered visibly when the second metal ring snapped shut around his other wrist.  Near the bunks, the redhead gave a vicious jerk, though Arturo’s fellow enforcers managed to hold him firm.  It was understandable, this last minute resistance. There had never been any real hope of escape but now even the illusion had to be slipping away.  And time was ticking. Arturo had a schedule to keep. 

The guy by the door grabbed a thick strip of torn sheet when he signaled towards him.  The brunette made a pained sound and sucked in some deep breaths as the heavy cloth encircled his ankles but Arturo was ready for that.  Letting his hand cradle the little hustler’s skull, he dug his fingers in, circling them in a soothing gesture. It was a mindfuck and a half, he knew, but it staved off the brunette’s impending panic as more sheet strips were used to bind his lower thighs.  

“Can you move?” he asked, keeping his voice professional and inquisitive while he continued to pet the dark tresses.  Milkovich pulled at the cuffs and Arturo could just make out the muffled, hopeless “fuck…” that fell from his lips. The enforcer glanced up again, meeting the rage filled gaze of the redhead.  One of the enforcers had a hand clamped over his mouth but his eyes were still visible and burning with hate and dark suspicion. Hmmm. Mickey Milkovich might not understand who he belonged to now but Ian Gallagher was starting to figure it out.  This was getting riskier. He needed to move things along. 

Arturo shifted before he attacked, anticipating the desperate rebellion that the brunette was going to launch.  Sure enough, when the enforcer wrapped the strip of sheet over his eyes, Milkovich went crazy. He kicked and bucked and whipped his head from side to side, frantic to dislodge the thick cloth that rendered him blind and truly helpless.  And it couldn’t be allowed. Arturo was going to inflict a great deal on Mickey Milkovich’s body tonight, but each mark was supposed to be significant. He didn’t need his canvass marred by all this thrashing on the floor. Glancing up, he saw one of the other enforcers slice at the redhead’s chest a bit, but Gallagher was growing wise to this bullshit and refused to make a sound.  He wouldn’t allow his pain to be used as a weapon against the man he loved. Arturo could respect that but he still needed a method to regain the brunette’s compliance. 

The real pain would come later but he knew how to get the little shit’s attention now.  Ripping down the briefs that offered the brunette his only meager covering, Arturo slammed the palm of his hand down across the bared ass.  A huge red streak sprang up immediately across the pale skin and Milkovich let out a pained grunt. He quit struggling though, and Arturo seized the moment.  Swinging around on top of the brunette again, he dug his knee into the little hijo de puta’s back, pinning him even more securely. Leaning down, he wrapped his hands around Milkovich’s chin and the nape of his neck, holding him completely still as he found his ear.

“Did you forget what the fuck I said, bitch?” he spat.  Before the other man could respond, Arturo released his chin and shoved the last strip of sheet into his mouth, winding it around the back of his head and tying it securely.  Leaning down again, he whispered, “You and I have a date we can’t be late for. Now you can either come along quietly like a good little lamb or you can continue to be a contrary little puta.  And I can either have my men leave your boy alone or we can carve his fucking face off. That’s your choice. But whatever you choose, your ass is mine and I’m taking it with me.”

Arturo could feel as the last little bit of fight finally bled out of Mickey Milkovich.  The body beneath him simply collapsed as the Ukrainian street thug recognized the truth in his words.  Letting go of the knot at the back of the brunette’s gag, the enforcer let his fingers stroke through the black hair one last time.  “Good boy,” he whispered, then leaped to his feet. 

Milkovich didn’t offer any fight, staying pliant  as Arturo hoisted him up and over his right shoulder. The same couldn’t be said for the ginger though.  Gallagher looked murderous and all three of the enforcers were struggling to hold him back. Arturo considered that leaving Milkovich’s torn briefs down around his knees and the red hand print on his ass exposed to the world wasn’t helping to keep the redhead calm, but it was a fitting indicator of the brunette’s current predicament so the enforcer wasn’t about to fix it.  But Gallagher’s eyes were fire. One of his brothers still had a hand over the his mouth but Arturo could clearly make out the garbled death threats that tried to force their way out of his throat. 

“Ian, stop,” came the equally messy order from the bound and gagged Ukrainian on his shoulder, but Gallagher wasn’t about to listen.  Staring back at him for a moment, Arturo suddenly realized that he’d made an enemy for life, one with the rage, motivation, and strength of spirit to be a real threat.  No, Ian Gallagher would never let this go and if the chance ever presented itself, he’d cave Arturo’s head in.

But not tonight.  

“Tie his ass up and get out of here,” he commanded as he steadied his prey on his shoulder and headed for the door.  He could see his fellow enforcers dragging the frantic redhead down onto the lower bunk as he headed out onto the tier.  His prisoner didn’t fight but it was impossible to miss the miserable hitch in his breath. Arturo brushed it off. What good would it have been to let them look at each other again?  It wouldn’t change any of the shit that was about to go down. 

“Don’t fucking move,” he ordered, wrapping a steadying arm tightly around the brunette’s thighs as he began to carefully descend the stairs.  He took each step cautiously, cradling Milkovich tightly. Now that he had the prize, he needed to see it delivered. 

As he reached the exit to cell block A, he was met by Healey.  Above them in the distance, he heard he distant sound of a metal door sliding closed.  Good. His fellow enforcers had secured Gallagher. Now they could get the hell gone and leave him to his dirty work.  No extra witnesses necessary. He glanced back into the dimly lit hall, catching sight of Cocker in the glass window of his own cell. He offered the OG a single nod.  They’d made a deal. He’d lived by it. The redhead hadn’t been hurt. As for Milkovich, well, he wasn’t going to do anything to the pretty little perra that he hadn’t earned.

Healey let him through with a grim set to his jaw but no further discussion.  As the cellblock door clanged shut behind him, he felt a shudder run through the body slung over his shoulder.  A strange blend of sympathy and satisfaction swelled inside him and he let the latter build. The little Ukrainian definitely knew who he belonged to now.  To test the theory, he lifted his left hand and rested it on the small of Milkovich’s back, letting his pinky stroke lightly over the top of the brunette’s cleft.  The bound man’s entire body tensed and a low growl rumbled in his chest, but Arturo’s threats held and he didn’t try to fight.

“Do I scare you, nino?” the enforcer thought, letting his thumb rub lightly just inside the soft crease.  The little gringo should be scared. 

Arturo didn’t actually like to cause pain.  He had no use for it in his private life. And if he were completely honest, in way he never really was with himself and never could be with his brothers in arms, there were so many things he rather do the Ukrainian’s body then tear it to shreds.  Sweet things. Warm things. But the life he’d chosen didn’t allow for such indulgences. And right now, he had a job to do and nothing came before the work of his mission. 

He paced through the halls of Beckmann.  It was oddly deserted but the doors he needed to access all stood open.  It was a nasty reminder of the power at play here, of the fantasy that Milkovich had been living in for the past few months.  He wasn’t safe. He lived or died at the word of the cartel leadership. 

The man in question remained fairly docile, not that he could put up much of a fight anymore, blind and trussed as he was.  But when Arturo finally made it to the basement door and descended into the cold tunnels, the brunette started to tense and squirm.  

Instinctively, Arturo smacked his ass again but it only further dislodged the shorter man from his perch.  Stumbling slightly, the enforcer slung his burden off his shoulder, setting him on his feet and shoving him into the wall.  Milkovich emitted a pained groan as his shoulder blades slammed into the cold stone of the tunnel but he tensed up and froze when Arturo stepped close and ran his fingertips over the old, poorly spelled prison tattoo that decorated his chest.  

“You really want to fuck with me, perra?” he whispered, leaning close until their chests were practically touching and his breath was skimming the brunette’s cheek.  Letting his hand drift down, he found the other man’s nipple and pinched hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from his throat. “Because if you want to fuck with me, I can start making shit hurt right now.  And then I can go find your boy and do the same to him.”

Grunts of protest found their way around the gag in the little shit’s mouth as he frantically shook his head.  Arturo’s hand shifted again, coming up to the back of his prisoner’s skull and clenching tight in his hair once again.  With his other hand, he ripped the gag down.

“What was that, bitch?”

“Don’t!”

“Don’t?  Don’t what?”  He punctuated his sentence by yanking the brunette’s head back.  He could see every detail of Milkovich’s nervous swallow as the other man tried to find his words.

“Don’t...don’t fucking touch him.   Please.”

It was hard to imagine that Mickey Milkovich had ever used this pleading voice before, but Arturo had a strong feeling that the redhead brought this out in him.  He had no intention of touching Gallagher, of course, but it was the one trump card that always seemed to gain him the brunette’s compliance. Taking a step closer, he reached up and let his thumb slide gently up the column of his captive’s throat, observing the way the other man shivered under his fingers.  

“How much do you think it would hurt if I cut that shit off your chest?”

Milkovich swallowed harder.  “Is that what you’re going to do?” He asked, all traces of swagger and bravado stripped from his voice.  

Arturo didn’t answer immediately.  Instead, he let his fingers curl around the back of the brunette’s neck as his thumb continued to stroke gently up and down the lines of his throat.  He stared in rapt attention at the skin as it dipped slightly beneath his light touch. He’d slit a few throats in his role as an enforcer for the organization but he didn’t think he’d ever taken the time to just stare at one, to consider how the skin and muscle covered the blood vessels.  

“Not my call,” he heard himself say, surprised by his own voice.  It didn’t stop him from continuing, though. “I need to take you to the officer of my chapter.  He makes those decisions.”

“So this is a fucking trial?”  There were whispers of panic in the little thug’s voice and it pricked uncomfortably at Arturo’s conscience.  Fuck. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to weigh the morality of the organization’s orders. They weren’t fucking suggestions, they were orders and he was supposed to carry them out.  He should be flinging the yappy bitch over his shoulder already. But instead, he found himself continuing to to touch the little Ukrainian shit. Why? Why the fuck did he keep touching him? 

“It’s not a trial,” he heard himself say, unable to stop his own fucking mouth.  He watched as his fingers continued to rub over the brunette’s skin, shifting down over his sternum to feel his frantically beating heart, “The trial already happened.  Verdict’s already in.”

“So, it’s the sentence?” The panic in Milkovich’s voice suddenly ramped up to a full blown hitch and he bit at his lower lip in a poor attempt to control the way it was trembling.  The enforcer felt his fingers spread out over the chilled skin of the brunette’s chest as he stared hard at that mouth. Oh what the fuck was he doing? He didn’t ask questions and he didn’t cause waves.  And he didn’t fuck up. Whatever the hell Luis ordered him to do, he was going to do and he didn’t need to make it harder for himself by having heart to hearts with Mickey Milkovich while feeling him up in a prison basement.  

“Yeah,” he spit out, pushing away from the soft body underneath him, “It’s the sentence.”  Reaching down, he grasped the gag from around Milkovich’s chin and shoved it back into his mouth. “And the longer we make them wait, the shittier it’ll be.”  

The brunette made one small noise of protest, but it was fleeting.  Instead, Arturo watched him take three deep, steadying breaths. And that shit ate at him, too.  Most men would be pissing themselves right now, babbling and begging like little bitches. But Milkovich just let his body rest limply against the wall.  And Arturo knew that when he moved to pick him back up, he wouldn’t get a fight. 

Whatever was coming his way, and it wasn’t good, Milkovich was going to take it with his dignity intact.  Arturo was suddenly sure of that. And the thought spurred him to action. Reaching down, he gripped the grey regulation briefs that still hugged the brunette’s thighs and tore them off.  

The brunette growled through the gag but Arturo was already leaning down, burying his shoulder into the man’s firm belly and hefting him back up.  “Don’t whine,” he muttered as he started down the long corridor again, “If I drag your ass in there naked, you look vulnerable, but if you’ve got your panties around your knees, you’ll look like a weak ass bitch.”  Milkovich fell silent and Arturo grunted in satisfaction. 

The little fuck wasn’t stupid either. 


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets a "sentence hearing" and tells his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the rougher stuff. Please read the tags.

The door to the boiler room stood open and a nameless guard, undoubtedly on one of the cartel’s payroll, stood sentinel outside of it.  Arturo paid him no mind. His business was inside. As he walked deeper into the steam bathed room, he felt his hands tighten slightly around the bare body slung over his shoulder.  He was becoming uncomfortably aware of how little he wanted to do this. Not to this body. Not to this man. 

But he would.  He knew he would.  It was what he did.  Uphold the Constitution.  Abide by the Mission. Obey your Officer.  Support your brothers.

There were two men seated at the far end of the room.  One, in the standard yellow prison garb, was seated on a wooden table, his legs dangling towards the ground.  As Arturo met his eyes, he received a satisfied smile. 

“You got him, brother,” the man said, jumping off the table and stepping forward.  Arturo could feel the tension ratchet up in Milkovich’s whole body, but he ignored it as he slung him carefully to the floor and stepped forward to return an embrace from his chapter officer.  Luis clasped him warmly, holding him tight by the nape of his neck. “You never let me down, mano. And I am always grateful for you.” 

Stepping back, Luis retreated towards the room’s other occupant, gesturing with his chin towards the silent man, who remained seated in a folding metal chair.  “You see? I told you it would get done.”

Arturo didn’t know the guy by name, but still, he knew who was.  Settled carefully on the seat in a a blue three-piece suit with his legs crossed elegantly, he might have been sipping tea on a veranda somewhere.  But it was all an act. He was nameless and practically faceless in the shadows but Arturo could place him just the same. He was the representative sent by the cartels when they’d called for a parlay.  On paper, he was an American lawyer but the enforcer knew the truth. The man was as thick in the shit as anyone else in their little business venture. And tonight, he was here to bear witness for his clients.  He would carry word and proof back to the parlay council. Sitting back in the shadows, he simply watched. 

Arturo wasted no time.  He could no longer afford to be distracted by dark hair and blue eyes.  Stepping forward, he grabbed Milkovich by the forearm and dragged him to his knees.  With a flick of his shiv, he cut the blindfold away and let it fall to the ground. As the brunette blinked against the light from the naked bulbs overhead, Arturo yanked the gag from his mouth and left it to dangle around his neck.  Moving around behind the back of the kneeling man, he let his fingers curl gently but firmly into the soft locks at the back of the little Ukrainian’s head. For the time, his work was done. This was Luis’ turn to take the stage.

“Mikhailo Milkovich,” the officer stepped forward and crouched down in front of the other man, staring at him with careful consideration.  It was an intimidating gaze, one that often broke the weak. The chapter leader was was tall and strong, with his hair shaved close to his scalp and a number of visible tats that showed his rank and affiliations.  The ink spoke volumes to anyone who knew how to read it. This was a man who had risen to his position through a potent blend of hard work, cunning and a willingness to do violence. 

Milkovich met his gaze carefully, offering a small head nod.

“What was that?” Luis demanded, leaning in closer.  He was baiting the Ukrainian, Arturo knew, but the brunette didn’t take it.

“Yes,” he answered, calm and formal, holding the officer’s gaze.  Others might have seen a challenge but Luis was not so impulsive. Nodding his own head, he leaned back slightly, awarding the shorter man some personal space.

“You caused some real shit, nino,” he said, shaking his head.  Reaching out a hand, he cupped Milkovich’s chin. “You run from your own law, you need help in a new land, then you bite the hand that gave you help.  Not the actions of a good dog, perra. That’s what a stray bitch does. And a smart man puts a bullet in that bitch’s head.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?”

Arturo could feel his hands tighten in warning around the strands of hair in his hands.  Luis glanced up at him, hints of surprise creasing the corners of his eyes at the Ukrainian’s presumption.  He didn’t look pissed, though. He looked intrigued. 

“Should I?” he asked simply, dropping his black gaze back down to the bound man’s face.

Arturo could feel the brunette draw in a long breath.  “Not sure I get a say in the sentence,” he answered evenly, doing an admirable job of keeping any trace of smartass out of his voice.

“Sentence?  Who said this was your sentence.  Did Turo tell you that?” Luis’ voice was still hard edged but there was a teasing lilt to it that Arturo didn’t know how to read.  He kept his expression neutral but when his officer looked up and met his gaze, he still felt like the man’s dark eyes could see right through the veneer.  Luis knew. He knew that his enforcer had been playing with his prey. 

“It isn’t the sentence yet,” the officer drawled on conversationally, fixing his assessing gaze back on the brunette, “It’s the sentence hearing.  And I’m your judge, jury and Jesus right now, so answer my fucking question, perra.”

“No.”

Arturo tensed and Luis’ eyes narrowed but the little Ukrainian only continued, “You asked if you should put a bullet in my head.  I’m saying no.”

Luis only smirked.  “I shouldn’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

The brunette drew in another deep breath.  “Because Esteban Baguerro was a piece of shit.  Worse than shit. I know...the cartels do shit, they all do shit...sick shit.  But it isn’t for no reason. It isn’t for fun or for their...their fucking egos.  They don’t ‘cause that shit draws too much attention.” There was a slight frantic undercurrent Milkovich’s voice and he’d leaned back unconsciously into Arturo’s thigh.  The enforcer braced himself, pushing back against his prisoner and shoring him up. He’d never met Juan Baguerro. He’d never met his psycho son. But he’d heard enough stories to realize that the horror in the Ukrainian’s voice wasn’t about his own predicament.  

It was from remembering.

“He never gave a fuck.  He’d do all this awful shit, to the people in the villages around the compound, to the women, to his own men if they pissed him off or he was bored.  Fuck, I’ve seen him shoot kittens. And his father did fuck all about it. He would’ve let it go on forever it it hadn’t…”

He trailed off and took a breath, casting his eyes down as Luis stared at him.

“You sing real good when you get going.”

Milkovich grimaced.  “You didn’t see this shit.”

Luis only smirked, but there was a tightness to his jaw. “I seen some shit, perra.  Done some shit, too. But yeah, not like this. Keep going.”

“What?”

“He would’ve let it go forever…” repeated the officer, gesturing to the brunette to pick up the story.

“Fuck...I mean...it was a fucking kid.  Maybe seven or eight. I mean, they’d do some rough shit when they needed to bend someone and they weren’t cooperating but this...He didn’t even both to try to ask the kid’s dad first.”

“You refer to Tomas Furillo?” came a new voice from the shadows.  Arturo whipped his head, his gaze landing on the man in the suit, still seated elegantly on the folding chair.  Hell. He’d forgotten he was even there.

“Well?” Luis demanded of the bound Ukrainian, “The kid?  You mean Julian Furillo, right? The son of the oil exec the Baguerros were trying to squeeze for info?”

“Yes,” the brunette answered, his voice wavering slightly. 

“Did you know who he was?” The suit asked, rising to his feet, “Did you know he was an American?”

Luis had abandoned his crouch and slid to his knees at some point and now he turned sideways, giving the lawyer an unobstructed view of their prisoner.  Milkovich raised his eyes just enough to meet the suit’s gaze, then shook his head. “No. Furillo worked for Pemex. It’s a state run company. No reason to realize he was American.”

“Did Baguerro know?”

“Juan?  I don’t have a clue.  I wasn’t that important.  And Esteban probably wouldn’t have given a shit if he knew.”

“So, you didn’t know the father was American?  You expect us to just believe that you turned on your employer for no particular reason?” the lawyer scoffed.

“They were infiltrated.” the brunette stated.  This seemed to catch the suit’s attention and Arturo could see why.  If the federales had a man in one cartel, he might not be the only one.

“Who?”

Milkovich let his head sag. “I mean, he went by Hector but that’s not his real name.  We got to be friendly.”

“Friendly?” Luis countered, leaning in towards him again “What does that mean, nino?”

This time the brunette couldn’t help but pull back, pressing against Arturo’s leg.  He shouldn’t have, he knew he shouldn’t have, but the enforcer felt himself give a little.  It wasn’t enough though, and Luis was soon right in Milkovich’s face.

“Mikhailo, the last mistake you want to make is to assume we’re stupid.”

The little Ukrainian drew in a deep breath.  “I don’t think…”

“Let me tell you what I think,” Luis spit, reaching up again to seize the brunette’s head and hold it still.  “I think that this pig that worked his way into the Baguerro cartel figured out that you were a fucking maricon.  I think he threatened you with that shit to get you to turn Esteban in.”

“No.”

“No?  Then tell me a better story, Mikhailo.”

Arturo could feel the sweat beading at the nape of Milkovich’s neck as the bound man let his head fall forward.  “He didn’t fucking threaten me. I just talked to him. I just told him what happened one night when we were together.”

“Together?”

The Ukrainian’s head shot up.  “Yeah,” he snapped, letting some real Southside fire show for the first time since Arturo had managed to slap cuffs on him, “When we were together.  Do you want me to spell it out for you?”

Luis didn’t hesitate.  He just let fly, smashing his fist into the brunette’s cheek.  It wasn’t meant to be a hard punch but it did snap the man’s head sharply to the side. Not allowing a moment to recover, Luis seized him by the chin and yanked his face back up.

“Spelling isn’t necessary,” he answered in a falsely sweet tone, “Just the story.  So he was fucking you? Hmmm,” He gave the dark haired man’s freshly bruised face a little shake,

“Yeah.  So there was no fucking blackmail.  We’d been fooling around for awhile.”

“You would’ve been killed if they caught you.”

Milkovich drew in a deep breath.  “I know that.” When Luis continued to stare at him, he continued, “He knew me enough to know some shit had happened.  So I...I fucking told him. Told him about driving Esteban to the neighborhood and parking on some side street. Told him how he came back hours later with blood all over him.”  There were hints of panic trailing back into Milkovich’s voice, but Luis just held his face and nodded his head. “I didn’t know at first...but it was all over the news and I put it together.  And I started to feel fucking sick. And that’s when Hector found me. And I just told him everything.”

Luis nodded, his expression calmer now.  His hold on the brunette’s face was light and supportive now, not threatening.  “When did they grab you?”

“The federales?  Hell, they raided the compound the next day.  Arrested everybody. But they wanted me, I guess.  When we got to the precinct, the Feds were there, too.  They told me that Tomas Furillo was actually an American.  And they told me every gory fucking detail of what Esteban had done to his son that night.  How he’d made the mother and brothers watch...and I...I just fucking cracked...I told them what I’d seen...and I, I fucking told them where he’d hidden all his shit.  He left the clothes and the knife in a backroom in the garage. He never fucking bothered to go get rid of it.”

“So you did snitch.  You fucking admit it, here, to my face?”

“Yeah,” the brunette, and Arturo could hear the reckless attitude building in his voice again, “I fucking snitched.  I snitched on a piece of shit child killer about being a piece of shit child killer.”

“And about the Baguerro’s tunnel system.”

“The fuck I did.  I didn’t know any of that shit.”

From his position behind Milkovich’s back, Arturo could see Luis studying the Ukrainian’s face carefully.  “Who did?” he asked simply.

The reply was just as simple.  “Esteban.”

“You think the son turned on his own father?”

Milkovich snorted.  “That son? On that father?  In a fucking heartbeat.”

The two men stared at each other, both hard and unwavering, as long moments glided by and Arturo’s hands began to cramp.  It was Luis who broke first.

“So it was Esteban who gave the cartel up?” he asked.

Milkovich stared at him carefully.  “Yeah. But I’m betting you already knew that.” 

Luis pulled himself up to a standing position and rolled out his neck.  “I did. But I needed to hear it from your lips.”

“And?”

Luis smiled down at him.  “And?” he repeated.

Arturo could feel Milkovich’s shoulders bunch with tension.  “And now what?”

“You sure you want to push this shit right now?”  Luis replied, walking back and leaning against the wooden table in the back of the room.  To the side, the suit simply sat in his chair again. Waiting.

“Esteban’s dead,” Luis stated suddenly, and Arturo could barely swallow his shock.  It wasn’t like his officer to be this forthcoming. But Mickey Milkovich seemed to bring this out in people.  “He took down the whole fucking cartel but he was dealt with before the damage could spread. And as for you, well, your sentence hearing is fucking over.”

The tall, dark haired man was pacing the length of the room.  Arturo had never seen his officer like this before. 

“You know, the punishment for this shit is usually fucking non-negotiable.  But you, Mikhailo, your not just anybody, are you? The press have just blown you right the fuck up.  The international fugitive, the son of a known white supremacist, the long-term, habitually incarcerated boyfriend of the gay messiah turned arsonist of the Southside.  All eyes are on you right now. You and that red head.” Luis paused in his pacing and leaned back against the table. He and the suit engaged in a brief but intense discussion with their eyes before the officer turned back to throw another carefully assessing gaze at their prisoner.  Arturo waited, trying to read the room. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. It made him feel sick and relieved at the same time.

“And any eyes that ain’t on you, well, they’re on me,” Luis finally continued, his mouth curling into a grim, brittle smile, “Me and mine and all our business associates.  We have the Chapo shit and the Flores brothers shit and that’s way too much heat. Don’t need anymore. So, Mikhailo, it looks like the stars have aligned in your fucking favor.”

The brunette drew in a long, involuntary breath at the words, swaying on his knees until Arturo reached forward and steadied him.  But they both drew in sharper, harsher gasps when Luis suddenly leaped forward and crouched in front of the kneeling Ukrainian’s face.

“It goes like this, perra.  You didn’t really roll on the whole cartel...so we’ll give you your life.  I could’ve taken a limb or two, or collected your balls for souvenirs for all this trouble tonight, but in the end, you might’ve stopped a turf war by triggering this parlay.  Instead of shooting everyone and the winner takes all, we’ll just divide up the Baguerro’s kingdom, absorb it into our own shit. That’ll satisfy all the appetites for awhile.” Luis paused and Arturo felt his eyes drawn up to the suit in the chair.  The man’s face was unreadable but he offered a single, slow nod. “You created some peace at a time when we need some of that shit...so we’ll give you your body. 

And you took down a piece of shit.  A violent fucking piece of shit. Forget all the loyalty shit or any fucking contests about who’s done what to who.  There isn’t a person on this whole planet who’s sorry that Esteban Baguerro is dead. And for that...we’ll give you your blood and your skin.”  He paused, letting it hang in the air as he reached out and took ahold of Milkovich’s head, squeezing the cheeks between his palms and letting his fingers curl around the back of the skull.  He pulled the little Ukrainian forward, knocking him off balance until their foreheads were resting together and they could stare right into each other’s eyes. “Most of your skin, mijo. Most of your blood.  But a little, we get to take.”

With a quick shove, Luis pushed the bound man backwards and drove a hard, decisive fist right into his solar plexus.

Arturo knew that pain.  It radiated out from the contact point, stealing away breath and logic and sanity.  The little Ukrainian doubled up, pitching forward towards the ground. Arturo couldn’t catch him but his officer did bother to grab hold of a shoulder and turn the bound man, preventing him from crashing face-first into the concrete floor.  The impact was still hard, though, and the brunette couldn’t contain the painful groan that escaped him. 

“Get him up,” Luis order, meeting Arturo’s gaze.  He didn’t need to bother though. The enforcer knew how this shit went.  Of all the options that his officer had negotiated with Healey and Cocker when the guard and  OG had agreed to give them access to Milkovich, Arturo had hoped that Luis would decide on this; agonizing and horrible, but manageable.  

Recoverable.  

Arturo didn’t waste any time. Pulling the keys to the cuffs out, he quickly unlocked one of the brunette’s hands.  Before the prisoner could recover his breath, Arturo had rebound his wrists in front of his body. 

“Don’t move,” he demanded as he left the Ukrainian on the floor and walked towards the far wall.  He didn’t really need to bother speaking. Milkovich couldn’t mount any kind of rebellions. He was still lying in the same little ball, gasping for air, when Arturo returned and clipped an industrial carabiner around the chain in the middle of the cuffs.  He knew the blue eyed man was still in pain and that what he was about to do was going to hurt like hell, but he couldn’t give Mickey Milkovich any more mercy. He’d been granted enough of that shit. If there was one thing Arturo believe in, it was appropriate responses.  That was how a system was preserved. Milkovich didn’t deserve death. Arturo wasn’t even sure he deserved what he was about to endure. But the punishment would maintain order. It would save lives. And for that, Arturo would give it his full effort. 

Stepping back to the wall, he joined Luis at the handle of a large hand cranked winch.  It wasn’t the easiest way to get the job done and it would’ve been simple to get access to an electric one, but the hand crank provided a mindfuck that was invaluable to the process; the loud, sharp grinding of the gears, the clatter of the chain as it slid awkwardly through the huge eye hook in the ceiling, the awkward yank of each rotation on the prisoner’s body as the chain tightened and lifted it into the air.  Milkovich was in too much pain to even attempt to fight back but he did manage to get his knees up, protecting his belly and groin from being dragged across the floor as he was hoisted up by his bound wrists.

Arturo stopped cranking and looked at the progress.  This was his show again. Luis was just there to help with the grunt stuff, relegated to the roll so as to avoid any additional witnesses.  Stepping back, Arturo lowered the ratchet, locking the winch in place. Then he stepped back and surveyed the view. 

It was nearly perfect.  The brunette’s whole body was pulled taut, stretched down from the chain in long, defenseless lines.  His feet were nearly flat on the floor and he was managing to keep a lot of his weight off of his wrists.  That wasn’t going to last though. 

Arturo gestured towards Luis, who followed his lead.  Striding towards opposite walls, each man located another long strip of chain with another carabiner at the end.  As he headed back towards the strung up Ukrainian, he caught sight of a slightly amused and approving smirk on the lips of the suit in the chair.  It turned his stomach a little, and made his fists clench. The fuck did the cartel boy have to be amused about? Was he surprised they ran a tight ship up here?  Was he surprised that they had a ready and maintained system for dealing with punishments? For a moment, Arturo let himself fantasize about letting the smug prick get a personal understanding of how effectively they could dispose of a body.  Instead, though, he turned his attention back to his task.

He had work to do.

Dropping the length of chain on the floor, Arturo let his gaze linger on the brunette’s face.  His bottom lip was bitten bloody and it drew the enforcer’s attention. There was real fear in those blue eyes but Milkovich seemed to be holding it together pretty well.  Too well. That wouldn’t fucking work. Just because they weren’t going to carve his fingers off or some shit didn’t mean the proceedings shouldn’t leave a lasting impression on the little fucker.  And most importantly, whatever they did, it needed to look good for the suit in the chair. 

Reaching his hand out, Arturo let his thumb smear through the blood, collecting it on the pad of his finger.  He could see the dread that dimmed the light in the blue eyes. Raising his hand up to his face, he made a show of inhaling the coppery scent while he stared back into the terrified gaze.   Fisting his hand, he let Milkovich watch as he rubbed the blood smear all over his hands. 

Stepping forward, he bumped his chest and core up against the brunette’s suspended frame, until the bound man had to tip his head back to meet his gaze.  Reaching down, he grabbed the gag that still hung around Milkovich’s neck and shoved it back in his mouth. The brunette groaned around the cloth but there was nothing he could do about it as Arturo stepped backwards and considered him. Reaching inside his jumpsuit, he retrieved the shiv he stashed earlier and pulled it out, twirling it between his fingers.

“Sorry, Mikhailo,” he replied cryptically, “but we’re gonna need a little more blood than that.”  

The brunette shrieked a little when Arturo ducked out of sight, dropping to his knees in front of the bound man with the little knife clearly visible.  The enforcer laid a hand on each bare thigh for a moment, deliberating framing the Ukrainians most exposed and vulnerable places, but he didn’t move or breath a word.  It was part of the game, part of the punishment, to keep the prisoner terrified and guessing. He could imagine the shitty fears that ran through the brunette’s head in that moment, thoughts of being force fed his own recently amputated balls or some shit, but after a long, tense moment, Arturo only used the makeshift blade to slice through the strips of sheet that bound Milkovich’s ankles and knees together.  

The sudden freedom drew a relieved hiss from the dangling man but Arturo didn’t let him enjoy it.  Nodding to Luis, he quickly grabbed an ankle and dragged it sideways, knocking Milkovich off balance and putting all of his weight on his bound wrists in the sharp cuffs.  The Ukrainian instinctively started to kick out but Arturo cut the meager protest off immediately, reaching a hand up and digging his thumb and fingertips deep into the tender thigh muscles.

“Don’t,” he ordered quietly, “Just fucking take it.”  Looking up, he locked his eyes on the bound man’s glare, staring down at him from above the gag.  Their eyes held for long moment as he watched a parade of emotions skim across the blue, but Arturo never looked away.  He couldn’t. Staring up into the panicked gaze, watching the man’s hard fought composure finally start to fray, he became sickeningly aware of how little he wanted to do this.  He would. He had too. But he wanted it done.  _ Don’t fuck around _ , he demanded silently, willing the sentiment to come through his own black gaze,  _ Let’s just get through this and be finished _ .

The brunette let out a long breath when he finally capitulated, closing his eyes and giving Arturo the slightest nod of his head.  The enforcer wasted no time. Looping the length of chain around his prisoner’s ankle, he snapped the carabiner shut and let the foot dangle down.  Luis had done the same with the other foot and it left the Ukrainian in a painful position. With his legs splayed out and his toes now barely able to scrape the floor, nearly all of Milkovich’s weight was now concentrated on his wrists, bound in the sharp and unforgiving cuffs.  But the vulnerability was the worst part. Spread out as he was, the brunette had no recourse, no way to shift or twist to protect himself.

Arturo watched as Luis took a few steps back, surveying the view.  With a satisfied grunt, the officer strode back to the wooden table and leaped up, resuming his casual seat.  His face seemed relaxed but Arturo could see the the slight tension in his jaw and the clear message in the man’s cold gaze.  He could hear the order as clear as day in his head.

_ We have an important guest in the audience, Turo.  Put on a good show. _

Arturo could do nothing but comply.  The stakes were too high, for him, for Luis, even for the poor bound brunette.  Gritting his teeth, the enforcer reached up and peeled down his jumpsuit, leaving it to dangle around his waist as he stripped off the long sleeved white shirt. 

It was easier to clean blood off of bare skin.

He glanced at the Ukrainian’s face one last time as he stepped behind him.  The blue eyes were closed now and the man’s chest was rising and falling with barely contained panic.  It was the perfect image for the cartel fuck and Arturo hid behind the bound body to let the target audience enjoy the view.  He let himself consider the prisoner’s back. The handprint he’d left less than an hour earlier had faded to nothing but there were other scars on the skin.  Old, gnarled bullet wounds and the distinct round puckers of healed cigarette burns drew his eyes and he let himself lay a palm flat against the skin, skimming up and down the length of the spine in a gentle caress.  It was an indulgence he allowed for only a second. The view would look very different in a matter of minutes.

Walking to the back of the room, he found what he was looking for.  Grasping the flexible handle, he let the long leather switch curl out onto the floor.   _ A show,  _ Luis voice echoed in his head,  _ put on a good show.   _ He allowed himself a deep breath.

He let the whip fly, cracking it behind the bound man.  Milkovich’s whole body contracted at the harsh sound and the whisper of misplaced air, but the chains held him taught and completely exposed.  Arturo came up behind him, reaching around his back to let his fingers curl around a bare hip and rest against the tender belly. He let the thick strap dangle over the other hip and he coiled it in one hand, allowing the leather to brush threateningly against the Ukrainian’s thigh and unprotected groin.  Genuinely terrified whimpers were fighting their out around the gag but Arturo couldn’t pull any punches. It had to be a good show. He didn’t want the fucking suit to try to order an encore. 

“How many,” he demanded simply.  Luis looked towards the suit.

“Thirty-four,” the man replied immediately, amusement in his voice, “One for every charge.  One for every problem he caused by running his mouth.”

Arturo ground his teeth together.  It was a lot but it could’ve been worse.  And he didn’t want the smug fuck to realize that.  No, he had to handle this shit, get the job done. Bracing his feet at an angle, he cocked his arm back and took aim.  Then he let the leather fly.

The fist crack left a long red welt in its trail.  It was shockingly bright against the pale skin, but Arturo didn’t take the time to consider it too long.  With a twist of his wrist, he landed two, three, four hard blows across the skin, placing them carefully to avoid overlap.  Taking two steps to the side, he attacked from a different angle; five, six, seven.

Pausing for a moment, he surveyed the work.  The Ukrainian’s body unclenched and sagged back to its hanging position, jarring the wrists in the process.  The brunette had responded as expected, trying to twist his body away from each hit, but his bound and splayed legs prevented even that.  Matching red streaks now marred his shoulder, lower back, right ass cheek and right thigh. A sheen of sweat had broken out across his skin and his pained, fluttering breaths caused the light from the bare bulb to cast shades and shadows across the skin.  

Eight.

Nine.

Ten

Eleven

He paused again, rolling out his shoulder.  Glancing to the right, he caught a glimpse of the lawyer.  The man’s thin lips were curled in amusement as he sat, perfectly relaxed in his chair.  Off to the side and behind him, where the suit couldn’t see, Luis was still watching from the tabletop, leaning back against the wall.  His face was fixed and stoic to those who didn’t know him, but Arturo was his chief enforcer and brother in arms and he could read his officer like a book.  Luis wasn’t like him. He didn’t mind this shit, enjoyed it even, when justice was meted out in this room. But Luis clearly didn’t look amused right now. He looked like he’d like the task to be done.  With a flick of his chin, he gestured for Arturo to get his ass moving again.

Twelve...Thirteen...Fourteen…

The nineteenth stroke finally drew blood, a tiny trickle on the left shoulder blade.  It dragged an audible moan from the bound man. But the twenty-second one was much worse, laying open a long line of skin, and sending a  curtain of crimson down over Milkovich’s lower back. The Ukrainian had been gradually losing the ability to fight, hanging limply in the chains and crying out with each strike.  But the cut drove him back into action, thrashing about wildly and helplessly as the blood flew in droplets. Arturo felt some of it hit his chest. He wiped it away immediately.

“Take the gag out.”

“What?” Arturo glanced up at the seated cartel rep.

“The gag,” he answered, his voice clipped and light.  “I’d like to hear him better.”

Fuck.  Arturo didn’t hesitate.   _ Put on a show, put on a show.   _ He wanted to wrap this fucking show up.  Stepping over the chain and stalking around the front of the brunette, Arturo held his eyes as he pulled out his shiv and finally cut away the knotted sheet.  Leaning in close, he kept the blue gaze fixed on his face. 

“Good show,” he whispered.  The brunette swallowed. He understood. 

Twenty-five, twenty-six…

Twenty-nine...thirty…

There were numerous cuts decorating the Ukrainian’s back, ass, and legs now and Arturo couldn’t have prevented them if he tried.  The man’s whole back was covered in welts. It was impossible to lay the whip down on skin without touching an existing mark. And the more times the welts crossed, the more freely they bled.  

At thirty-two, the Ukrainian’s head fell forward soundlessly and Arturo thought he might’ve lost consciousness.   _ Oh no, you little shit,  _ he though, striving forward,  _ you don’t get to escape yet.  We have to fucking finish first or they’ll just make me wait until your ass wakes up.   _ But as he got close, he could hear the brunette’s deep breaths.  Pulling his head up, the tough little fuck forced his toes to find the floor and held himself up.  It stole Arturo’s breath for a moment. 

Two more.

Luis was off the table the second the final welt welled and bled.  In his hands he now held a small white cloth, a plastic bag, and an manila envelope.  Arturo stepped back and let the officer take control again. He coiled the whip and hung it on the hook, turning back when he heard the high, pained keen.  Luis was pressing the white cloth against the bruised and bleeding skin of Milkovich’s back, letting the blood and sweat soak into the material. When it was mostly red, the officer balled it up and stuffed it into the plastic bag.  Stepping over the chain, he headed toward the suit, shoving the plastic into the brown envelope. 

“Here’s your receipt.”

The smug prick nodded, accepting the package.  He rose easily and headed wordlessly towards the door.  As he approached the Ukrainian’s side, he stopped and let his gaze roam over the bare skin, a derisive curl on his lips.  For a second, Arturo thought the lawyer might lash out at the helpless prisoner. For another second, the enforcer feared he might try to stop it.  But the suit seemed to read the tension in the room. Straightening out his tie, he headed towards the door.

“I’ll give the report.  Keep the house clean up here,” he threw over his shoulder as he met the guard at the door and walked out.

Luis made to follow him, gesturing Arturo towards him as he went.  At the door, they both paused, looking down the long, dark tunnel. The guard and the lawyer were disappearing in the distance.  

“Good work, as always,” the officer stated, turning towards Arturo and laying filial hands on his shoulders.  “I trust you can finish up in here?”

There was a careful questioning look in the officer’s eyes that Arturo could easily read. It sent a jolt through his whole body.  He understood exactly what was being offered.

There was no room in Arturo’s organization for any kind of proclivities.  In the outside world, it meant an immediate death sentence and he was far too disciplined to ever indulge.  No, in the outside world, he fucked women like a good soldier. But the inside was different. Certain things were allowed.  And Luis had known him for many years, in both worlds. He knew what Arturo truly desired. He knew it was impossible. But he kept his enforcer’s secret.

And now he offered him a gift.

Patting him on the cheek, Luis winked and walked out of the room. 

“The doors’ll be open as long as you need, mijo,” he called over his shoulder.

Arturo watched him go, leaning back against the doorframe.  He closed his eyes for a long moment, then twisted his head to glance at the bleeding form still strung up in chains from the ceiling.  

Fuck.  No. Never.  

Luis thought he was doing him a favor but though his brother tried, he could never understand.  So many of Arturo’s fellow soldiers were like that. They were in the fight all the time and nothing else got in the way.  Sex was a release. Didn’t much matter what the other person thought about it. And prison was just a greater extreme of that norm.  But Arturo didn’t go for that shit. He never had. And the last person he was gonna start with was a bound and bloody Mickey Milkovich.  

No, he didn’t do this. Violence was a part of his work.  It would never, never be a part of his play. In some perfect world, where his life wasn’t tied up in a code that forbid it, he’d have revelled in the chance to meet the pretty Ukrainian on the street.  He’d have loved to tease smiles out of him, to coax him into a bed. But not this. Never this. The stark difference between his real desires and the offer before him made his stomach lurch in a way that the violence of his work never could.  He could only have accepted something real, something like what the brunette shared with his redhead.

Arturo paused, the image of the burning green eyes driving the final nail in the coffin.  He could never have Milkovich like that but the little fuck did have it for himself. And Arturo found he didn’t want to fuck with that, didn’t want to sully it up.  It would, he knew that. The Ukrainian had already proven that he could handle a fierce whipping but to touch him like that, against his will? That would be a different fucking story.  It would cast a shadow over whatever it was that he shared with the redhead, and Arturo found he didn’t want that shit on his conscience either. He’d already used that bond against Milkovich to get him here.  He wasn’t going to disrespect it any further.

Fuck it.  There was only one thing left for him to do. 

The little Ukrainian had gone limp again.  His eyes had fallen shut and his head lolled sideways, barely propped up against one arm.  But his survival instinct was still sharp enough to drag him back to half-consciousness as Arturo approached him.  His eyes were wary as the enforcer came up to stand in front of him and it drove the last tiny tendrils of unsurety out of Arturo.  

“Don’t,” the brunette ordered, the barest whisper of steel creeping back into his voice.

“I won’t,” the enforcer replied simply.  He watched as wariness and disbelief slowly bled out of the blue eyes, replaced by a hesitant hope.  It was the one indulgence he allowed himself, to commit that face, those eyes, to memory as the hardness of despair melted out of them.  

Kneeling down, he grasped one of the bound feet and unclipped the hook.  Above him, a pained moan tore out of the brunette’s mouth as his numb leg swung sideways.  The movement had to pull on the bruised and torn skin of his back but there was little Arturo could do about it.  From what he understood, the redhead was far better equipped to fix Milkovich up. The best thing the enforcer could do was give him back.

Once he had both ankles free, he guided both feet to the cement floor.  He knew from past experience that the little Ukrainian could barely feel his legs or arms at the moment, as numbed by blood loss as they were, but he needed the other man to rally the last bit of strength he had in order to get him down without causing further damage.

“Hey,” he demanded, taking the man’s chin in his hand, “I’m gonna drop the winch slowly.  Let your knees bend and try to go down as straight as you can. Once your low enough, I’ll unclip your hands, okay?”  The brunette managed a nod.

The winch was easier to manage now that gravity was on his side but Arturo still strained a bit, trying to control the speed of the descent.  It didn’t make a huge difference, not with the way every movement stretched and shifted the Ukrainian’s body, but he had to at least try. Milkovich managed to sink down on his knees, holding his upper body up and finally taking his weight off his wrists.  He hissed and bit at his lower lip as Arturo unlocked the cuffs and tucked them away, but he didn’t scream or let himself collapse under the pain like so many had before him. If he hadn’t already realized it, the enforcer would easily admit it now; Mickey Milkovich was one tough motherfucker.  

“You could’ve left me my fucking pants at least,” he snapped as Arturo reached under his arms to support him.  The enforcer just shrugged. 

“What the hell happens now?”

“Now I take you back?”

“Just like that?”  the brunette’s voice was thick with incredulity and other emotions Arturo didn’t want to touch, “After all this shit, you’re just letting me go?”

“The punishment was carried out.  I don’t have to lie to you. If I was going to kill you or...or hurt you further, I’d have told you and then done it.”

Milkovich stared at him for a long moment and Arturo let him look his fill.  There was assessment in those blue eyes now, caution and consideration. “Who the fuck are you?” he finally demanded.  

“Arturo Mesa.  But those I call friends refer to me as Turo.  And you are Mikhailo Milkovich. And your friends call you Mickey?”

The blue eyes narrowed.  “You trying to say you’re my friend?” he spat derisively, but Arturo could only smile.  Such fucking fire.

“I am definitely your friend, Mickey,” he stated easily, “Luis Serrano is also your friend.  Even that fucker in the suit is your casual acquaintance. Because you know who we are. And you know what we do to our enemies.”

The brunette finally broke the gaze, the pain and exhaustion dragging his head down.  Arturo glanced towards the door. He was tired too, bone tired. He wanted to go back to his cell, smoke some weed, and stop thinking about Mickey, naked and bloody in a prison basement.  

“Can you walk?” he asked, leaning his head down to assess the black haired man’s consciousness.  Mickey pulled his head up again, forcing himself to hold the position. 

“I can fucking walk,” he snarled, forcing a leg up.  Arturo did all he could to support the other man’s attempts but Mickey barely even managed to stumble to a standing position before his legs buckled, sending him crashing forward into the enforcer’s arms.  Arturo didn’t hesitate, using the momentum to swing the little Ukrainian back up and over his shoulder. Mickey hissed, a combination of pain and protest, and offered some half-assed, squirming rebellion but it only took a moment for him to collapse back into compliance.  

“Don’t fuck around,” Arturo muttered as he straightened the load on his shoulder, reaching around behind him, he grabbed Mickey’s closest wrist and dragged it up and over his shoulder for extra leverage.  The brunette cringed as his cuts pulled again but he allowed the enforcer to maneuver them to a stable position, unable to stop the way his other arm hung limply down Arturo’s back. 

Pausing as he headed towards the door, the enforcer snatched the white shirt he’d stripped off from a hook on the wall.  Refusing to dwell on his motives, Arturo used his free arm to drape the cloth over Mickey’s ass and thighs. Then, securing a firm grip on the brunette’s wrist and knees, he strode out of the room and didn’t look back.

The walk down, only hours before, had seemed like it took an eternity but now Arturo found himself exchanging a stiff nod with Healey at the gates of cell block A before he even realized it.  Coker was nowhere to be found but he could feel the OG’s assessing gaze on him. A small, somewhat childish part of him almost wanted to go show the old biker that Mickey was alright, that he’d kept to their agreement.  But he didn’t have that much emotional reserve left and he knew he’d need it to deal with Ian Gallagher.

Healey popped the door to A23 open from the guard tower, staying well away from the pending confrontation.  Gallagher was up in a second, fully dressed now and no less rage fueled than when they’d dragged his lover away only two hours ago.  Arturo knew he was fairly defenseless so he took the only option available. He swung the brunette’s body carefully off his shoulders and cradled him across his chest like the peace offering he was.

It drew Gallagher up immediately.

“Mick?” the voice was frantic, as was the expression on the redhead’s face.  The rage melted away as he approached, reaching for the sagging form Arturo offered him.  The enforcer wasted no time, hefting the brunette, carefully but firmly, into his lover’s arms and cutting off all of the retribution the imposing ginger had no doubt been planning. 

Just as he’d expected, Gallagher went right into caregiver, swinging around and easing Mickey onto the bottom bunk.  He knelt down beside the low bed, running the fingertips of one hand lightly over the lines of the brunette’s spine, probing the damage.  The fingers of the other hand stroked gently through the injured man’s black locks, a gesture that caused a knot of tension in Arturo’s spine.  He should leave. He should take the opportunity to just slip away while he could. But instead, he found himself lingering. 

The sound of a throat clearing from the door drew the attention of both he and Gallagher.  Coker had appeared out on the tier, his gaze fixed on the redhead. A fresh surge of fury bloomed across Gallagher’s face as Arturo watched him spring to his feet and stalk forward, but Coker only held out a tube of what appeared to be bacitracin and a roll of medical gauze.  

“You can punch me tomorrow, kid,” he stated plainly, pushing the supplies into Gallagher’s chest,  “Right now, you take these and do what needs to be done. You’re both off work detail for the next two days.”

“You son of a …”

“Ian!”

All three men’s eyes were immediately drawn back to the bed at the sound of that voice.  Mickey’s blue eyes were open again, and his mouth was twisted into a grimace as he tried to hold his head up.  The redhead immediately turned to kneel back down next to the bed, gently pushing the brunette back flat. Turning towards him, Coker pushed the medical shit into Arturo’s hands instead.  

“You can give him this,” he muttered, and headed off down the tier. 

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hating the uncharacteristic unsurety that afflicted him.  He’d done his job, all of it. He should just walk away, back to his cell and his weed and his own fucking bunk.  He needed to do that. He had no right to be here anymore. 

Striding forward, he set the supplies down on the small desk to the left of the door.  His movement drew a quick and protective reaction from the redhead, who turned to face him with his hands up, but Arturo only raised his own hands in surrender.  Reaching down, he quickly picked up his long sleeved shirt, discarded on the floor, and flung it over his shoulder.

“So what the fuck now?” the redhead demanded.  Arturo studied him carefully. He was furious and spoiling for a fight but that was only the surface.  Underneath, he was terrified and for some fucked reason, Arturo found he couldn’t stand that. 

“Nothing,” 

Gallagher wasn’t mollified.  “Nothing?” he snapped, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means nothing,” Arturo responded, keeping his voice as even and open as he could manage.  “We’re done. This was the sentence handed down. He took it. That’s it.”

The redhead looked like he wanted to push the issue further and suddenly, the prospect of reliving the whole fucked affair proved to be too much.  “He’ll tell you when he’s ready,” the enforcer muttered. Turning quickly, he walked out onto the tier and rolled the heavy door shut behind him. As the metallic rattle died away, he let himself peek through the little window.  The redhead had turned back to the bunk, sliding down the wall to the floor. Mickey’s blue eyes were open again, and Arturo could see him biting his lip against the pain as he reached one arm out, wrapping it around Gallagher’s neck.  He could see the taller man gently cupping the brunette’s cheek as he pulled their brows together. Arturo let himself stare for a minute. It didn’t matter. In that moment, all those two could see were each other’s eyes. 

An hour later, as he exhaled the last tendrils of smoke from his home rolled blunt and let his hand wipe through the mess of release on his stomach, Arturo realized he might never get those eyes out of his own mind either.  He knew, without doubt, that those two had something rare. Something precious. Something that deserved protection.

Now what the fuck was he gonna do about that?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this might seem like I'm leaving a lot of loose ends but this story will eventually be continued.

**Author's Note:**

> The next part of this is rougher. As anyone who reads any news on the topic will know, cartels and their stateside affiliates are known to be extremely brutal. However, there is no major lasting physical damage inflicted on any character.


End file.
